From the bottom of the garden she heard the children's voices. They must be playing on the croquet lawn, she thought. Hopley touched his hat to her from the shrubbery. Why hadn't he gone? she thought distractedly.
Why were they all still there?
She heard a light footstep on the grass behind her and turned to find Annie approaching with a wrap in her hands. 'There's a chill in the air. Just put this round your shoulders now.'
Mrs Merrick accepted the garment, drawing it tightly about her. Already she felt the cold.
'It'll soon be dark,' she said. 'It won't be long now.'
Pike put on his cap, pulling the rim down to within an inch of his eyeline, using his first and second fingers to measure the distance in a gesture made automatic by the years he had spent in uniform.
He did up the top two buttons of his tunic and then ran his hands lightly over his body from head to foot — cap, tunic, trousers, puttees, boots — in a further involuntary action to which he gave no thought. His rifle stood propped against the side of the dugout.
His gas mask, rolled into a bundle and tied with a piece of cord, lay on the bunk bench beside him. There was nothing further he had to do. Now he could only wait.
Although it was still light outside, the plaited willow roof and the surrounding screen of brush prevented the late-afternoon sun from entering the dugout, and Pike sat unblinking in the near-darkness.
He was waiting for nightfall.
At Melling Lodge he had attacked at sunset. The thick woods of Upton Hanger had covered his approach and he had been able to hide in the bushes by the stream until the moment was ripe. Here in Ashdown Forest more patience was called for. His route to Croft Manor took him through stretches of open country as well as woods and he was too conspicuous a figure in his military dress to risk being seen.
By day at least the forest seemed well populated.
Throughout the afternoon he had made regular sorties out of the dugout to scan the surrounding countryside and he had seen, at different times, ramblers in the distance, a man with a butterfly net and a troop of Girl Guides. None of them had lingered in the area and none, he believed, would still be abroad after dark.
Pike reached down for the stone jar of rum at his feet and lifted it to his lips. As the syrupy liquid slipped down his throat, settling in a warm pool in the pit of his stomach, his thoughts went back to the war years. To the many times he had sat, as he did now, in trench or dugout, waiting to accompany patrols and raids into no man's land, or in the hours leading up to a general attack.
He had not expected to survive the conflict. After his first few times in action he had seen that, for him, death or crippling injury was unlikely to be long delayed. He had been a soldier of almost suicidal bravery. The anguish that dogged his days, repressed and barely acknowledged though it was, had nevertheless driven him to risk his life repeatedly. It would have taken a more reflective man than Amos Pike to have recognized in these acts of desperation the grim aspect of a death wish.
But although struck down several times by bullets and shell fragments he had returned each time to his battalion where he was regarded with awe that quickly shaded into fear among those who came into close contact with him.
His memories flowed back and forth… He saw the bodies of the dead lying in their hundreds and smelled the sickly-sweet stench of corruption… he saw the dead body and smelled the scent of roses… he recalled the warmth of sweet white flesh pressed to his and the pleasure that so soon turned to shame.
And now he could feel the heat stirring in him, the blood flowing in his loins, and without being aware of it he began to move back and forth on his seat, while a sound — half moan, half chant — issued from his lips.
His eyes were shut tight. The black wings of the past beat about him and he saw himself, too, like a bird, rising and soaring free, escaping the prison of his days-!
His movement stopped in a heartbeat — his eyes flicked open.
He had heard a noise outside the dugout.
A rustle in the underbrush?
Or had it come from further off?
He rose, his instincts on a knife edge. Taking hold of his rifle he stepped out from under the cover of the plaited willow and stood motionless in the fading light, barely drawing breath.
Listening…
Billy Styles lit another cigarette. He glanced at his watch. Still twenty minutes to go. He looked along the line of laurels to where Madden was sitting with his back to the bushes facing a group of five uniformed officers, all of them armed, who were seated on the opposite side of the footpath. Billy was with a party of four — sergeant and three constables — none of them carrying revolvers. They were closest to the pond and had been ordered by Madden to advance, keeping the water on their flank.
It was not until nearly four o'clock that Billy had caught his first glimpse of the inspector and the squad of policemen he brought with him. They had followed the same route he had taken, making a wide circle to avoid being seen from the thicket, and then joining the footpath that led to Stone Pond.
Billy had hastened to meet them. He gave Madden a brief account of his difficulties with the Guides and reported his sighting of the figure at the fringe of the thicket.
'Did you see his weapon?' Madden's frown seemed permanently etched on his features.
'No, sir. Just something shining, like metal.'
The inspector rubbed the scar on his forehead.
'Remember, if he starts shooting you're to drop to the ground and await orders. That goes for all unarmed men.' He glanced around. 'The rest of you should find what cover you can and return fire. But listen for my orders. Stay alert.'
Billy learned from one of the two sergeants accompanying Madden that their advance on the thicket had been postponed by an hour. It was now set for five o'clock. Part of the delay had been caused by the difficulty of getting the men into position between the wooded knoll where Hoskins had kept watch and the far side of the pond, where the ground was flat and bare of cover. Then, just when Madden had returned to where Sinclair was waiting to lead the rest of the men around to this side of the thicket where Billy was — a party of ramblers had stumbled upon them, upwards of two score the sergeant said, and the police had had their work cut out gathering them together and shepherding them away from the area. As a result, the chief inspector had delayed the start of the operation from four o'clock to five. It could be no later because of fading light.
Madden left them briefly to walk to the end of the row of laurels where he crouched and peered through the bushes. When he returned he divided the party into two groups, telling the men that no whistles would be blown to mark the start of the advance.
'Watch for my signal. It'll be at five o'clock exactly.
We'd better synchronize our watches.'
Madden was speaking to the sergeant in charge of the unarmed squad, but Billy checked his own wristwatch and set it to the inspector's mark. It came to him that his wish to see action — the feeling of resentment he'd always felt at missing the war — might be about to be satisfied. He was pleased to discover he felt no fear, just a faint suggestion of emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
The two parties separated.
Billy sat on the ground with his group in the shade of the laurels. They were all from Tunbridge Wells.
One of the younger constables, a man with something of Billy's own colouring — red hair and freckles — said he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
'Two dozen coppers to catch one bloke. That's hardly fair odds, if you ask me.'